


Of Summer Days and Highway Lanes

by SouthernBird



Category: Rockman X | Mega Man X, Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Introspection, Iris is Alive AU, M/M, Minor Angst, No edits because we die like X's vent systems during summer heatwaves, Summer, Summer of XZero, XZ Summer Event, Zero Tries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25229014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SouthernBird/pseuds/SouthernBird
Summary: Axl crunches his empty can against the curve of his solar gem and groans, annoyance melting along every limb as he somehow sinks further down into the chair he is draped over.“Your boyfriend is asking you on a date, or, well, his idea of a date, and you gotta argue. That’s so typical.”--For the 2020 XZero Summer Event
Relationships: X/Zero (Rockman)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Of Summer Days and Highway Lanes

**Author's Note:**

> I made it! Now y'all can see how writing most of a nearly 5k fic on a cellphone reads.

_“Good morning, Abel City! It’s the top of the hour and we are here for the morning news! First, let’s check in with our head meteorologist—.”_

A bellow of utter despair reverberates throughout the high rise of the lobby while a timid sun ekes her first rays through the window panes and across freshly waxed floors. Verdant optics barely dart over to the source of the sound, finding that nursing his drink is far more essential to meandering functions. 

“Ughhh, it’s damn hot; that’s all they need to tell us, sheesh,” Axl grouses over the lip of his E-Tank, glaring at monitors of MHHQ lobby with a scathing venom that echoes in profound multitudes within his friend’s own circuits, “too damn _hot_.” 

As the dutiful meteorologist points along a map of Abel City and the surrounding suburban areas, X notes a hint of exasperation that shifts along the tone of the bot just trying to do his weather-related occupation. Amiable yet curt, the reploid glosses over the lack of precipitation on the horizon, the lack of wind currents to temper the heat, and then pops up the five-day forecast to reveal that, yes, the sun is truly a hellish force of nature that intends to burn up the world where the endless wars had failed to accomplish. 

There is a little twisted thought of airy derisiveness that wonders why the heat wave is so abhorrently awful this particular summer, so awful that even during nightshifts, X’s vent system is taxed to the near brink from a culmination of urban heat and vapid humidity. Climate change aside, the Blue Bomber has to pull up a database to discover the last summer record breaking heat waves occurred while Axl groans and flops within his own chair. 

“This is ridiculous! I’m a damn friggin’ prototype of the latest and greatest pile of science bullshit humans and reploidscan come up with, and what good is it if I can’t stay cool during this stupid summer?!” 

X exhales lightly with a tiny nod, sipping boredly at his drink that exists only to be particular helpful to his poor outputs that are struggling to cool his systems even this early morn. However, everything he does, from his heady inhale to the tight slope of his shoulders, feels like it takes more energy to accomplish than any other ordinary day. 

Hell, even gathering the facets of thought to tell his fellow Hunter to lower his voice requires too much, so Axl’saggravation heightens with sour curses and rumbling gripes as summer is now bane and thorn. 

Summers, however, have always been a disdainful fallacy amongst the ranks of the Hunters, inciting added risk with tourism spikes that do not help one thing in the time of a Maverick crisis. Add on the natural occurrence of Abel City becoming more of a hotspot for late night parties and last-minute excursions to Petrolia Beach, it is a great jamboree for the civilians, but a horrific detriment to the sanity of those that protect and serve. 

This year in particular is yet another scratch on the proverbial wall of reasons as to why X should have allowed himself to remain in retirement because he is far too old, and far too hot, and Axl is making too much _sense_. 

Still, the prototype build fusses and fusses on as the sun rises ever towards her perch, and X is sure the redhead has trotted on without one pause on the horrendous work environment instilled upon them this season. While the list wracks up to the near twenties and thirties on ‘Axl’s list of grievances,’ the news reels on and X finds himself sliding down into his seat with a small whine as the tell all whir of his fans kicks up. 

For all his wondrous advancements, for all his immense, infinite potential and assets that have befuddled the greatest of minds this century, his ventilation is regrettably subpar. Perhaps the system was an afterthought by his creator, some near-the-end task of completion so that X would never be taxed under the duress of temperatures that swelter beyond balmy, but hindsight relays otherwise. Even with some small modifications acquired from Dr. Cain’s research labs, X just lacks the ability to keep his processors adequately cool. 

Oh, Dr. Cain, bless his soul; the Blue Bomber is certain the old man would off-beatedly offer a bath of cryogenic liquid to add insult to injury. 

“That’s it—,” and the sharpshooter huffs with a swish of his can as he has depleted the fire of his pissy soliloquy, “I’m unionizing us—I’m taking all of our demands straight to Signas! We deserve better than the man expecting us to do all this stupid backbreaking—oh, hey, Z.” 

X is so far lost in the grand image of laying at the bottom of a glacial lake that he hardly picks up on his partner’s footsteps. Which, granted, is no feat to worry over as Zero’s vent are as winter quiet. 

“I would be careful with that kind of talk, Axl,” Zero warns with a wrinkle of his nose, “those words can sound like insubordination.” 

“Dude, don’t read too much into it. Just let a ‘loid make his grievances,” and X nods in muted affirmation as Axl’s rantsare starting to make far too much sense. 

The sharpshooter nags on and on at the screen, half expecting his comrades to listen as Zero leans against the arm of X’s chair, arms crossed as though he ponders the reports himself. 

It almost creates a methodical white noise that permits X to fall into some daze where the heat licks just right there but the buzz keeps him solidly present in the lobby with the two people he trusts implicitly—that is until Zero tilts his head down, face devoid of any expression. 

“Up for an off the clock deal?” 

Perking up from the idling static, green meets blue that are sharp and intent. There is hardly a space where ‘no' may enter the chat, but X shrugs and makes his own. “Depends.” 

“Minor disturbance down at the piers roughly five hundred sixty-eight kilometers east from our current position.” 

Another sip of his drink grants him a mere second to roll the idea around, “sounds like that’s a civilian matter?” 

Ever the advanced processing fiend, Zero never misses in replying smoothly. “Probable, but still was requested to survey and report.” 

“Well, wouldn’t that be too much?” 

Axl crunches his empty can against the curve of his solar gem and groans, annoyance melting along every limb as he somehow sinks further down into the chair he is draped over. 

“Your boyfriend is asking you on a date, or, well, his idea of a date, and you gotta argue. That’s so _typical._ ” 

That seizes up every wire that comprises the Blue Bomber and sets it aflame, leaving Axl to cackle after sneaking a glance to relish in his victory. X’s mouth works into some grating reprimand to admonish the little jerk, but no words seem viable enough to validate a retort. That predicament cause Axl to roll out the chair to clamor over the floor as he exhausts his vents with his inane laughter. 

Zero, however, not even moves a centimeter from his makeshift post, more or less proving him to be a bastion of self control. “I knew he would argue.” 

“ _Zero!_ ” 

The red bot has at least enough decency to appear slightly rueful. 

Axl glances up from his newfound place on the tile, watching between them before cradling his chin along his knuckles with a canary-eating grin. “I better be the best man.” 

A yelp echoes through the lobby after a clink of an empty can gets played as a light bludgeoning remark, and the poor receptionist manages to tear her eyes away from her gossip app to see two SA Class Hunters, a blue stomping forth and a red following diligently behind, leaving a loud third behind to head for the docking garage. 

_—_

“There’s no actual disturbance, is there?” 

The highway out towards Petrolia Beach winds out from the heart of Abel City all the way to sunny sands and overpriced condominiums, all the way to inorganic palm trees that sway like bibulous dancers above the seashells. It is a sight that has been posted across posters and advertisement holograms all over Abel City, the tourist venue of the beach displayed in vibrant promises of a vacation unlike any other. X has only seen it personally once or twice, never to visit for any personal pleasure but rather to deal with incidents that fortunately never went past an argument or a tussle. 

Today, though, is an enigmatic affair as the way has been spent with small chitchat passed between them, but eventually X has determined that Axl was right and this is a ruse all the while, the most profound give away being Zero not once supplementing the conversation with mission details that would have been the priority to relay. 

Long after the metropolitan goliath of the city has faded from behind their ride chasers, all that is left to see are sparse trees whipping beside the road until nothing but sparse hills guide them. Soon, there is the detection of salt in the air, a tinge of headiness that clings to X’s mouth and prompts him to lick his lips. His sensors detect sodium, but there is something exotic outside of the chemical composition. 

Zero, however, makes no mind of the atmospheric change, but shrugs when he has apparently determined a reply. “No, but I could not rely on another premise that would fit my usual affairs.” 

So, a lie, a little dirty one, but a lie all the same. It should be somewhat adorable, the warbot actually fabricating a falsehood to drag X several miles away from the bustling labor of their workplace, but any scoff or tease ceases when green eyes gaze over to his partner. 

To say X is entranced for a sliver of a time is an understatement. 

If it were enough to relegate his processors to calculate Zero's intentions, his life perhaps would not be so devilishly complex. Instead, the azure bot is faced with an endless struggle that drums warlike yet timid all the same in his heart, leaving him drifting always in neon cotton clouds of ifs and whys. 

Then and there, Zero is nothing short of glorious, all sun warm and golden bright, a machine of war that can be as tepid as an autumn day. Every detail of the crimson Hunter fascinates and beguiles, and it craves within X a need to turn over every stone and discover every nook of Zero himself. After all, their friendship, no, their relationship, has always been a quirk of passing side eyes that has also left the First sleepless at night as his CPU run double time. 

Beside him is a proud beast, formidable and cunning, yet he himself is a bit plain, in love with a resplendent, endearing world and all her manners. Ashamedly, he too is in love with said beast and that leaves him nothing but a pacifist with a finger on the trigger. 

“You’re processing data more than driving,” calls a cautious reprimand amidst the beach breeze and thrumming purr of the chasers, “come back to me.” 

X nearly shudders, cheeks a berry hue, but revs his chaser just to be passively petty. 

“Oh,” Zero croons, a glint of mischief glass cut in his eyes, “ _that_ is how you want this.” 

The smirk X receives is downright sinful—and the breath he holds scorches through, nearly fraying wires and melting joints, as he is left to chase Zero down the highway towards a small parking lot right on the cliff side just down the way. In a gawking moment, X almost beeps into their personal commlink because _when did Zero remove his speed restrictions,_ but laughter has mirthfully frothed into his lungs, and freedom tastes citrus sharp and honey buzzed. 

Blessedly, this little haphazard parking space is devoid of life, human and machine, until a flock of seagulls cry into the skies as they drift down over the ledge towards the sea below before banking off to the left where the water-lorn cliff side slopes down into the balmy shores of tourist delight. 

“I guess I lose,” yet there is no consolation to the loss on their abrupt race to the finish, a grunt the only admission of agreement. “You at least can tell me why we are at the beach if not on duty.” 

A pause, and lips he knows far too intimately purse together while the gears turn to some end all of a premise. Then, a shrug, casual but typical, yet Zero’s are depthless blues that the ocean herself should envy this morning. 

“Commander approved approximately ten hours off for us today. The advantage was there to take.” 

Sufficient, but stunning nonetheless. “Signas is not one to offer time off suddenly.” 

Zero’s mask falters as he rolls his eyes heavenward as though to pray for patience, “a formal request was made prior.” 

Servos grind to a minimal halt before revving into overdrive. X is left there flabbergasted: since when did Zero turn in formal requests for time off for them both? 

His head hurts. 

“Okay—last question then I’ll play along—what is this then?” 

Axl’s laughter rings clear as sea glass in the hollows of his servos, a bottled message of promise from hours before when the sun was rising from her satin nighttime quilts. The bouncing laughs are intertwined with that tiny voice that waxes romantic, the same that he locks away under chain and key so that heartbreak never be his only friend. 

Yet, Zero grins, and it is not heartbreaking but heart stopping, a near suffocating sight that burns like campfire light and smoldering summer vibes. There is a coddling warmth that undulates through X’s systems, the same that halts and then refreshes and makes him feel _clean_ , like his partner has washed the grit of sand from between each bone with cresting waves. Born anew, yet still similar, some being that is entirely under Zero’s omnipotence. 

“This is whatever you take it to be,” the blond answers, tone uncontrived yet abound in secrets all the same. It would be worrisome, maybe even tiresome, but the wink that follows just adds to that swoon that threatens to topple X’s gyromagnetic calibrators topsy-turvy. 

Frustratingly, with not another hint to elude to whatever the hell he is conjuring, the infamous Red Ripper turns then to proceed off the parking pad down the path towards a set of shacks and sprawling color specks of beach towels and beach balls. Even in the high noon of the blistering summer day, people are flocked about, basking in cloudless cyan that stretches far beyond this little slice of heaven. 

If naivety were a companion that X kept close, then he would have concluded that they were there to indulge in the nuances of a day in the sun, to bounce brightly-speckled balls into the air or to rest along the curves of the sand dunes while crabs plundered the burrows for resplendent shells and scarce bait. It would have been a spectacle, to watch a man so emboldened by his own even temper to fully let go, to click into the instincts that were so earthly and so nonessential to his function that the azure Hunter would be in a state close to veneration. How all incredulous yet how bedazzling it would be to be fair witness to this war machine built to the brim with steel-cold strategy and masterful weaponry to be carefree. 

But, with all of time’s regrettable lessons, naivety is a road of assumption and to hypothesize on the theories is an utter waste of precious time. Instead of some wanderlust abated with charming flirts on Petrolia Beach’s most secluded of sandbars, X finds himself more at peace watching Zero pay for something sugar cold to provide an unnatural coolant to his partner’s systems. The act alone is a slight travesty of sorts, as X is aware how Zero feels about unnecessary fuels so he merely fusses at the tender gift of a large cup of vanilla ice cream with caramel drizzle, but the blond brushes him off with an arm slung over his shoulders. How they seem to go about the small crowd undetected, the First is not sure, but perhaps politeness is a far more commodified gesture than he ever thought prior. 

The affection is hardly off-putting, at least, and nothing soothes the exacerbated, overtaxed systems than quite like the first bite of frozen delight that slides down his throat. Perhaps he was a bit too hard on the purpose of creation as, well, how could X be grateful for the small wonders of this life if he could not truly appreciate all the meanings it holds? 

(Also, there was a vendor selling watermelon as well, and damn X’s sweet tooth, but he had to have a morsel or two of that as well.) 

Then, they take a stroll, strangely calm as it sounds for their usually hectic routines, as small talk between them fills if the spaces within and around, the world no longer a peripheral that exists outside of each other. The children cheer about their games and music idles in curious conflict as bass beats and pop claps collide, but when they find a bench all their own, everything dwindles down from people peering and gull gazing to just being together without the breath of civilization at their napes. 

Expectations of what they are as heroes buries itself into the conch shells, ever hidden like a treasure trove of guilts and what ifs beneath time’s sun-bleached sands. 

At times, their hands touch, Zero’s thumb brushing along X’s knuckles. At others, X might lean too far in, cheek pressing against a shoulder pad that was never meant for cuddling. Then, lastly, they just be, sitting side by side on that lonesome beach some ways up the incline to indulge in the sea’s potential for beauty and terror. Hours pass, trickling away with each syllable and each glance the two share, but the golden hour of afternoon’s end slowly blazes across the sky in brilliant banners of tangerine. Twilight is upon them, her grace a blossoming affair of cloud ships sailing out to an ocean’s endless line. 

And then the smothering palm of summer feels a little less cruel, less heat drunk and more placid wake, when the reminder comes that there was a time when X was so scared that loving Zero might have been the worst thing he ever heard. What a petty game of chance it was to play, Lady Luck and her rolls of dice and of eyes only for devil grins to cut to bone and to herald in beckoning calls that was too intoxicating not to float into. 

Here they are, together, some semblance of upending fate lingering along the sea salt that films over the sheen of their armors. 

“Seriously, you can at least humor me and tell me how you decided to pull this off,” X pins down as he leans to nudge their elbows together, but the touch lingers and feels terrible to break, “but... thank you. Really, thank you. I—well, that’s all I can say.” 

A gaze as striking as the sky is vast glances to him, unsure, irresolute, then the edges soften with resolve, but Zero can only look at X for so long before the setting sun is far more worthy of his watch. 

“You can telecom Iris and relay your gratitude if it means that much.” 

_Iris?_

X sneaks a moment of pause because, really, such an admission sets takes him from zero to eighty right towards the brink of near panic. Iris is a name Zero and he avoid like the plague despite the years that have dragged along past the events that decimated Repliforce. Despite the slow restoration of the fallen army’s name after the Eurasia incidents, despite the apologies, despite the demons that still lurk in the shadows of his will, X has only seen Iris a handful of times, and even then, it has been mainly on his tablet. Too anxious to see her though cordiality would sit on his shoulders, he admits he is ashamed and can only watch her many interviews and panel discussions, but honestly? He more than prefers it that way. 

After all, there is always that sickly jealousy wraps like thread around his throat each time he sees her smile, too tight and too charming to be genuine as she speaks on the affairs of machine and human. Even there on this beach away from her, regardless of the years Zero and him have endured something more together, Iris belies a could have been that X both frets over and holds clandestine. He envies so deeply that he forgets himself at times for the former Navigator only lifted her hand in violent retaliation once—that is far less than he will care to say for himself. 

“She—did you ever tell her? Does she know?” 

“That we are more than friends or that you retired Colonel? If the latter, no; she is still under the premise I did it.” 

X sits back against the bench, and his entire existence becomes a needle-sharp pinpoint of existence that is solely derived from this fact. It feels near penultimate, as though teetering from the edge into some chasm of abysmal guilt that X maintains every second of his lifespan. Colonel has always been there in the depths, saber at the ready, his noble pride and his bitter anger a steady pulse that beats next to his murderer's. 

The report states Zero's name as the sole Hunter authorized to leave for the Space Station. It was incorrect and has been since X shot one final blow. 

“Okay…” the blue Hunter swallows and sighs, hollow like a sunken ship, “I’ll bite: why?” 

Zero never tears his gaze from the horizon despite the orange glow that brushes about lilac and peach in a drifting sunset. Nothing seems to churn within his partner, and X is nearly terrified from the anticipation of the truth. 

“Iris can forgive,” the ‘same as you’ is left to float humid and featherlike towards the some unknown, “and I knew due to the priority I had in her subroutines, she was capable of forgiving me. If it were to really matter, my call for backup went through our personal line, so officially, you were not supposed to be on site.” 

X refuses to accept that regardless of Zero’s flat, factual attest, “she deserves to know.” 

Ambiance flickers a tinge acidic, lemon sour as the once Maverick turns back once more, and X nearly reels back once that sharp, near feral glare cuts him down to the joints, cuts his down to half his size for having a smidgeon of audacity, “she deserves to live as peacefully as possible, same as you.” 

That—well—that is a nuance of the unexpected, being made speechless by a warbot that somehow has determined that a burden of prevarication is better advised than the grief of truth. To be frank, that Iris can live this half-life, having forgiven Zero for a sin that he never committed but paid so much for while X feels poison black eat and corrode away at his own soul, is just—tiresome. 

Fairness is hardly life's priority. 

“It would do no unit involved any benefit... Besides, I have been meaning to address a possible meeting between the two of you. Iris reminds me too much of you at times,” Zero remarks, turning back to the sea as she laps along the beaches below in some silent attempt to convene his wonderings to her arcane currents. 

A blink, processors kicking up to process such a proposal, and X cannot help the light lift of the corner of his mouth, both amused and hesitant, “are you saying we would be compatible as friends?” 

To achieve optimal sympathy it seems, the crimson Hunter grunts, dropping his head forward to shake in faux defeat. “ _Too_ compatible.” 

Something soft bubbles to X’s throat, an effervescence that feels tranquil and kind at the scene of his partner beset with regret at the prominence that is an eminent friendship. That something catalyzes into a chuckle as sweet as modest springtime, when the flowers bloom iridescent and the breeze cool and summer has not raked coals over the earth. Unfortunate that in the shadow, Colonel is still there, still domineering in all his broken prides, yet there is a scent of some saccharine flora that abates him all the same. 

“Your life would be terrible if we became friends?” X teases dulcet, easing a hand over to pet over the blond sensors in a mocking act of comfort, “poor Zero. Whatever would you do?” 

To X’s further delight, Zero’s core rumbles as though pleased, and that jealous croon reminds him that perhaps Iris has learned this trick as well, but as quickly as that grime-ridden behemoth of all his anxieties rears, X shoos it away. Not now. Not _now._

_“_ _Jealous, my dear boy? Why so? Ha, come here to listen to the ramblings of a wise old coot: jealousy blinds the heart of a good man.”_

Pensive and mournful as his chemosensory smells cheap cognac and lofty sandalwood, X draws his hand away while the other’s shoulders droop. 

“I would need daily assessments of my cognitive reasoning for allowing two likeminded robots to meet and to subjectively work together on my early retirement.” 

Well, that was downright paltry, but it might draw a snort and an eyeroll from the First, “you are, as the humans say, such an ass." 

Then, Zero grins at him, all teeth and tenderness, “I am.” 

They share a glance and something kindles in the underlying ripples as the sea breeze lazily swirls about. It is a spark down in X’s spine that he knows all too well, but it never fails to leave him in awe. 

The blond, as usual, breaks the line, shifting to settle with his elbows propped over the bench back, fingers pressed to his partner’s back. “She was correct.” 

That piques curiosity. 

“About what?” and X recalls that in his hand is a poor cup of melted ice cream and swirling the pool of vanilla staves of something that nips sullen worry into his chest. 

Nothing comes, and all that is left to fill the void of an unanswered inquiry are sea hymns and bird song while clouds wisp in their goodbyes to the dwindling flocks that are reluctantly stepping off the beach to let the Milk Way take them to another adventure. 

And so, their little summer day ends with their hands joined, dusky pink twilight fading until nothing but the highway lines put them citybound. The fervent stars hang above like fairy lights, dotting constellations across a milky skyline of indigos and navy blues that whisper of tomorrow, that clings to the promise of sun’s light bathing the land and sea upon her morning. Still, in a golden vestige’s place, the moon soon swallows the earth in her silver veil, and searching green meets affirming blue as the engines kick slower to just drift along a lunar shift back home. 


End file.
